The place is emptyÂ…perfect. Soft dark red velvet adorns the boothsÂ…perfect. The lights are only bright enough to see the few maroon-carpeted steps directly in front of youÂ…perfect. There lies a woman stretched across the piano with a mic in her hand. You hear the rest of the band, but you can't see anything more than their shadowy black outlines against the dark brick wall behind them. Though she never leaves her post, she's speaking to youÂ…singing to youÂ…reaching out to youÂ…there is no one else in hereÂ…the place belongs to youÂ…and to herÂ…perfect. Though you haven't felt this soothed, relaxed, for too long of a time, there's still something a bit askew. There's something about that voiceÂ…that hairÂ…that toneÂ…so familiarÂ…but what is it?
A lone bright white spotlight clicks onÂ…no, it can't beÂ…no way!!! What kind of bad dream is this??? She walks towards youÂ…she sings of heartache, of no time for love, of being lost in a world of material survival, and hating every minute of it. No, it can't be. Please let this not be a dream this time. Let this be real. She stops at your table. She is standing right in front of youÂ…"I'm so sorryÂ…my boss made me work lateÂ…"